


Stake Away the Truth

by Band_obsessed



Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Slash, Worried Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: Merlin just lies there, loose-limbed and lax on the cold stones, shadows stretching across his body like gossamer webbing. His eyes are scarcely even blinking, just staring, listless, into that darkness.ORArthur has many feelings after Merlin suffers at the dorocha's touch. None of them are good.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Darkest Before the Dawn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028496
Comments: 36
Kudos: 328





	Stake Away the Truth

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what it is about these two episodes but they've inspired me so much. This could be seen as a follow-up from my last one-shot, but it stands just as well on its own. If you're interested, my previous work is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081427)! 
> 
> Title taken from Fenne Lily's _Top to Toe_.

It’s not until after — after Merlin’s eyes flicker, after he gasps in a rasped, pained breath, ragged and wet — that Arthur lets himself drop to his knees. That he lets himself press his forehead against Merlin’s sternum, listen to the rhythmic thumping that he had been too afraid to feel for. He didn’t think he could bear the emptiness in Merlin’s chest, that devoid, irrevocable absence.

It thrums steadily now, if weak, and Arthur keens — turns his fingers into ropes and knots them into Merlin’s clothes, clings to him for fear he will float away if he lets go, disappear on the same invisible current that took him; the cold, punishing breath of the dorocha.

“Sire,” Lancelot starts and Arthur heaves in a breath, forces air through the tightness in his chest. There is a part, a small, vindictive part that wants to turn, bare his teeth and order them all out. It is not their fault, he knows, but had they been five seconds faster, three seconds, _a moment_ , then Merlin would be safe. Tucked next to Arthur’s side like he always was. His hands would be tangled in his cape or clinging to his shoulder, trembling but _warm_ and Arthur would scold him lightly, chastise him for a fear that he pretended he himself did not feel.

But the knights were not.

And Merlin does not.

He just lies, loose-limbed and lax on the cold stones, shadows stretching across his body like gossamer webbing. His eyes are scarcely even blinking, just staring, listless, into the darkness.

Fear coils tight through Arthur, slinks its way down his spine and back up again. The emptiness he knows that would echo in his ears should he draw back threatens to overwhelm him. Because there is no sign of life in Merlin’s face — his heartbeat and the small, jerky motions of his chest are the only movements; the rest is painfully, horrifyingly _still_.

And it’s wrong. So wrong that Arthur can barely swallow past it. Merlin is never still. His fingers are always twitching, busying themselves with the reins of the horses, brushing across Arthur’s shoulders, his arm, tangling together when there is nothing else for them to touch. He is never this silent either — always talking a mile a minute about something Arthur can only half follow, or humming that god-awful tune he insists on. But now his throat only clicks inaudibly around itself, trying, Arthur supposes, to summon some semblance of language to his tongue.

Arthur hushes him softly, pushes his fingers — shaking, still. Gods, why is he still _shaking_? — through Merlin’s hair. It is as cold as the rest of him, stiff beneath his fingers, peaking in little tufts that are coated themselves in frost. And still, Merlin does not move. Still, he remains paralysed, frozen, and it is only Leon’s hand at his shoulder that draws Arthur away from the sheer panic that threatens to engulf him bodily.

“Sire, we should move him. The dark is no place for any of us to remain.”

Arthur nods, once — nods again just to prove he can — and brings himself shakily to stand on a single foot, his right knee still pressed almost painfully into the cobbles. He has carried Merlin before, flung him across his shoulder in the heat of battle when he was wounded more times than he can count. So Arthur knows his weight, knows he has always been alarmingly light — a fact that he had continuously tried to rectify — but gods, he is _heavy_ now. Weighed down by the ice that still clings to him, the frost spreading across his clothes, refusing to melt even in the glowing warmth of the torchlight. And Arthur can’t stop trembling long enough to slip his hands beneath his body — his cold, _still_ body.

He heaves when he tries, fights off the hysterical voice that whispers to him that Merlin is dead, that Arthur will only be cradling his corpse. When he finally manages to pry his hands beneath Merlin’s torso he cannot lift him, strains with the effort of fighting a battle on two fronts — of wrestling with the anger rising in his chest, the heat blazing behind his eyes, clawing its way up his throat.

Percival stands to Arthur’s side, gently pulls Arthur's arms from beneath Merlin and lifts his body himself. Does it with such familiar ease that Arthur’s jaw clenches with a force that threatens to splinter his teeth. There is nothing to be done, now. Nothing he can do but watch Merlin’s limbs dangling limply in Percival’s hold — those loose, ragdoll movements swaying with every step.

He has never felt so _useless_ before. So inept.

His fist collides with the wall before he can think better of it. Slams against the hard, unforgiving rock with a crack that reverberates up his arm. A bloom of pain explodes so brilliantly across his knuckles, radiates down his hand, that he is breathless with it. He will be lucky if they are unbroken but he cannot bring himself to care. Not when it is his fault Merlin is injured — _dying_ , his mind whispers and he is tempted to punch the wall again in a bid to silence it. _His_ fault that the only man who had ever cared for him — _truly_ cared for him — is lying still and mute and defenceless.

Gwaine spares him a look, gestures wordlessly to the door Elyan is holding open for Percival. Arthur nods, flexes his hand just to feel the burn, and follows them out.

He cannot bring himself to look at Merlin.

—

The fire is a small, desperate thing. It scarcely fills the pit they have made, licks at the air with dancing, dwindling flames. They all know it’ll die before the light of dawn. Nobody recommends fetching more wood. Arthur is half tempted to trek off alone regardless, take his good hand and his sword and seek out the dorocha — ride his anger into the ground. Or to the grave.

But Elyan has not let him out of his sight, and Leon looks about ready to physically restrain him should he need to. And gods, he might have to. Arthur has never known a fury like this before — it coils around his limbs, seeps into his bones, tugs at his muscles until they spasm, until his legs burn with the need to move. So he does. Paces up and down and around the fire, sheaths and unsheathes his sword, stabs the thick veil of that darkness in helpless, barely restrained anguish.

It isn’t until Merlin shivers, until his voice croaks out a syllable that is just as likely a groan as it is Arthur’s name that he stops, drops to his knees at Merlin’s side and catches his eye for the first time since he rolled over his body.

The sight turns his stomach, tightens his chest. There is no glittering amusement in Merlin’s gaze, no bright spark of mischief, of knowledge. There is nothing but vacancy. Cold and empty and far away. It is the same look that his father wears. He breaks the contact a moment later, stares instead at Merlin’s chest, his neck.

“R’thur,” Merlin stutters, loose and clumsy and Arthur removes his gauntlets, his gloves, to press his palm solidly against Merlin’s face. It is so cold that he almost recoils, feels more like touching marble than human skin, but he resists the urge and forces himself to trace a thumb across Merlin’s cheek.

He doesn’t need to see to complete the motion. He has done it blind, in the dark and the stillness of night, more times than he can feasibly keep count of. He would know the contours of Merlin’s face anywhere, could separate them from a lineup without hesitation. But he still cannot meet his eyes. Cannot bear to see that listless look, an echo of Uther’s insanity.

“Rest, Merlin,” he commands. Selfish, always selfish. His name on Merlin’s tongue is _wrong_ — slurred, like his mouth can’t differentiate between the sounds. He does not want to hear it again. Does not want to hear another word from his lips when he sounds like _that_ — sounds so unlike the man Arthur knows that he aches with it all.

Merlin does not. He strains against his own limbs stubbornly until Arthur concedes, slips his arm beneath Merlin’s back and helps him sit. “Do you _ever_ do as your told?” he asks, too fondly amused for his words to have any real bite and Merlin sags against him, clumsily tries to reach for his hand. All he manages is the smallest twitch of his fingers but Arthur knows what he means to do and closes the distance for him, rests his hand solidly on top of Merlin’s.

Arthur pretends he doesn’t see the way Lancelot glances away, averts his eyes from the scene. The way the others stand back, take a sudden interest in the fire or the stars.

Beneath it all, beneath his anger and his fear and his still trembling hands, he is grateful for it. For the small semblance of privacy that they are afforded. There are many things he wants to tell Merlin, all of them sensitive, delicate. All of them no doubt will be butchered by his clumsy tongue, his haste to make his point. It is unfair, he thinks, to be making such statements here. To hold the man he— the man he cares the most for without knowing what tomorrow will hold. Without knowing whether Merlin’s eyes will blink open, whether his body will freeze in the night, whether his heart will stop beating before dawn can break. They are not thoughts he lets himself linger on.

“It is alright,” Arthur murmurs, soft and quiet, brushes the back of his hand against Merlin’s brow. “You will be alright, Merlin. You have my word.”

Merlin’s jaw trembles, teeth clacking together in a muted, frenzied rhythm. “S’cold.”

It is so ridiculous that Arthur cannot stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. “Well, that’s what you get for charging a dorocha, _Mer_ lin.” Arthur doesn’t mention how he should be dead. How when he’d first turned his body over — cold and still and heavy — he was convinced he _was_.

_”No mortal has ever survived their touch.”_

Distantly, in the back of his mind, Arthur wonders what that makes Merlin. He can’t bring himself to think the word immortal, recoils from even the prospect of it. Because Merlin — _his_ Merlin — being immortal is about the most unhinged idea he has ever thought of. It is nothing short of unfathomable, _impossible_ , even. But it doesn’t stop him from wondering. From his mind replaying the last few years on a loop of snippets, moments where Merlin should have died, where _he_ himself should have died. It had never struck him as odd before but he is beginning to think that it should have. He knows nothing of the structure of the buildings in and beyond Camelot, but surely not all of them can be that…unsound. That prone to crumbling at just the right time.

And even his luck must run out at some point. Except it hasn’t yet. At every tournament, in every fight, every skirmish, he has been crowned the victor. At every turn of the road where he should be dead, he wakes, sees Merlin at his side or standing over him. A sentinel. A guard.

There is something he is close to, Arthur knows. Something he is on the cusp of understanding because, while he may be a fool, he is most definitely not an idiot, no matter what Merlin insists. But his mind is tired, dulled. The fear and the rage and the uncertainty have left him in a rush of adrenaline now Merlin is awake, alive.

“What aren’t you telling me, Merlin?” he asks softly.

If Merlin makes to reply he doesn’t get very far. Fatigue clings to his eyelids, pulls them down until he can scarcely keep them open and Arthur finally chances a look at his face, brushes his palm down Merlin’s cheek. He looks peaceful, like this. With his listless gaze covered, his unseeing eyes slipping shut.

Arthur passes his hand once more down Merlin’s cheek, presses his thumb gently to the underside of his jaw. “Rest.”

Merlin does.

—

Dawn breaks in a slow, lazy light. Arthur almost misses it. His feet have kept him moving all throughout the night, pacing back and forth and around, stalking up and down as far as the light from the fire reaches. The flames had dwindled just as the sun had begun to crest, to push itself lazily from the horizon.

Merlin doesn’t stir. Only wakes when Arthur kneels at his side and takes his hands between his own.

It's short work securing him to the horse and Arthur resolutely ignores the way his fingers tremble, the swelling across his knuckles still blooming from the night before. It feels wrong, somehow, to send Merlin off without following. To ready him for travel and watch him leave alone.

He is half-tempted to send the knights ahead and ride back to Camelot with Merlin himself. Keep him steady and warm and safe. But Leon is right. Too much is at stake to turn around. No matter how much he wants to, he cannot. He is Crown Prince, King in all but name, now. There are sacrifices he must make.

And this, he thinks as he ties another buckle, is the greatest of them all.

Merlin blinks at him sluggishly. His words are still slurred. “Please, Arthur. You can’t.”

“Merlin—“

“I have to go with you. Please. Arthur, _please_.”

It is more than Arthur can stand. He knows, in his heart, that this is to be the last time he will see Merlin. That this is to be the last glimpse he has of the man who has stood by him for four years. The man who, gods above help him, he cares for more than any other.

Merlin must see it in his eyes. Or the way his hands falter against the reins, the straps of the horse. He whines, high and pained and Arthur clenches his jaw, swallows thickly. “Arthur, please, don’t—“

“Stop it.” Arthur’s voice trembles, struggles to escape the tightening of his throat. “Stop it, Merlin. Please.” His voice breaks, catches on the last syllable and he coughs, turns his face away from Merlin’s gaze to inspects the ties. The last buckle has already been secured but Arthur runs his fingers mindlessly over it regardless, grits his teeth and blinks harshly against the burn in his eyes.

Lancelot turns on his horse, meets Arthur’s eyes solemnly. “Sire, we need to leave.”

Gods. _Gods_. When Arthur had pictured this moment, laid awake in bed in the quiet, stared up into that abyss of darkness, he had never thought of it like this. Like Merlin, half-paralysed and strapped to a horse, _Merlin_ who should be _dead_ , Merlin, riding off back to Camelot, leaving to go where Arthur knows he cannot follow.

It was supposed to be different. Everything was supposed to different. Arthur had, secretly, envisioned candles, a small banquet, at the very least. Mead and wine and the fire in his hearth flushing Merlin’s cheeks with warmth as he listened to Arthur confess. Listened to the words Arthur had spent so long agonising over.

But there is none of that. The fire melts into the bite of frost, the iced chill of Merlin’s skin, the tremble of his lip.

In a fit of insanity — helpless, desperate insanity — Arthur keels forward, knocks his forehead as gently as he is able against Merlin’s. “Forgive me, Merlin.”

The contact is insufferable, both too little and too much and Arthur’s chest splinters, cleaves itself in two under the pressure. They are not the words he means to say but they are the only ones he can manage. The others shrink in his chest, shy away from the light of truth.

He always has been a coward when it comes to Merlin.

But his actions have always spoken where his tongue cannot and his lips are pressed to Merlin’s brow before he can think better of it — cold and clammy and trembling. “Forgive me.”

“Sire—“ Lancelot starts, and Arthur steps briskly back from Merlin’s form, allows himself one last, lingering look.

“Go,” he commands, still holding Merlin’s gaze, anguished and pained and breaking.

The horses break into a trot. Arthur knows Merlin cannot scream even if he wanted to — can see the straining tension in his mouth, around the corners of his eyes. His lips move regardless, mouth Arthur’s name and Arthur can do little else other than watch, numbly, as the horses ride into the thicket of the woods, and ignore the way it feels like losing a piece of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Please consider leaving comments and kudos if you enjoyed <3


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